


Shining Loyalty Unflecked

by Deepdarkwaters



Series: A Certain Dog [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, Fights, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Old Married Couple, Peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 01:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19263262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: Eggsy never could have imagined a job as perfect as dog nanny to the world's tiniest and most wonderful puppy, but an unexpected jailbreak just has to come along and threaten everything. Good thing his bosses are real life action heroes. You can pick up all kinds of skills from friends like that.





	Shining Loyalty Unflecked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paxdracona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paxdracona/gifts).



> Art by the always sensational [Paxdracona](https://paxdracona.tumblr.com) ❤️
> 
> Thank you to the nitpicking and cheerleading team for all the help: Mang_o, otherwiseestella, Paxdracona, Schuyler, and Winchester666!

Eggsy wakes with a hard on, which he'd be much more excited about dealing with if he were in his own bed and not his employers' spare room.

He groans softly, pawing at it through his borrowed pyjama trousers like that might make it go away, and searches blearily for his phone to check the time before remembering he left it charging in the speaker dock downstairs. It's early, he can tell that much from the silvery pre-dawn light showing around the edge of the curtains. Far too early to get up, but there's not much point going back to sleep because he's learned by now that Mr Pickle has some kind of weird sixth sense and the little bastard _knows_ when there's someone awake in the house even if they don't get up or make any sound. Ten minutes at most, possibly fifteen, before the whining starts from downstairs and he'll have to drag himself down to earn his wage.

He rubs his palm over his cock again, slow and sleepy, not really awake enough or turned on enough for this yet but still quite into the strange, lazy comfort of it. For a minute that's all he does, a gentle rhythmic stroke up and down through the fabric with one hand as he's idly picking sleep crumbs out of his eyes with the other—then he suddenly remembers Harry and Merlin are secretly spies, not tailors, and everything gets more complicated.

They're asleep in their bedroom down the hall, just two walls and a bathroom away. A creeping dirty insistent little thought wriggles its way into Eggsy's consciousness: _Last night was their anniversary. Wonder if they celebrated?_

"Fuck," he mutters on his next exhale, very quietly, then sucks in another chestful of air when the base of his hand manages to snag the head of his cock in just the right way.

 _This is so fucked up_ , he tells himself, trying to be stern but just feeling weak and wobbly. And it's fucked up in two ways: firstly it's fucked up to be groping himself in his bosses' guest room. Talk about shitty manners. And secondly, it's really really _really_ fucked up that the lingering image in his head right now is of Merlin holding a light grey suit jacket completely soaked in blood that's smeared all over his hands and dripping onto the floorboards while the shower squeaks on in the room next door and Harry washes the rest of it off his naked skin.

Harry did that. Harry, his boss, his friend, who drinks strawberry frostinos without embarrassment in the street. Harry, self-proclaimed mother to the tiniest, most spoiled little puppy in the world. Harry who took deep offence at Eggsy's poor knowledge of Nora Ephron films and organised a marathon viewing party with such obvious glee at getting to share something he loved that Eggsy didn't have the heart to tell him afterwards how much he thought Sleepless in Seattle sucked. That same Harry, for his _job_ , made some guy bleed so much all over him that he came home drenched like Carrie.

And Eggsy _wishes he'd seen it_.

An interesting one to think about, that. Especially when you've got your hand on your cock. There's just enough fuzziness here in this funny place between asleep and fully awake, blurring the uncomfortable edges of everything and turning stuff that should be nightmarish into some weird soft-focus fantastical dream. He imagines what Harry must have done to slop all that blood out of someone, dawdling through the gallery of intriguing, vibrant pictures his brain throws up: Harry creeping along a dark film-noir alleyway, silently slipping a straight razor from his pocket and slitting a guard's throat before he even realises he's no longer alone. Harry fighting with knives in both hands, sinuous and lightning-quick, his long limbs keeping a dozen baddies from getting anywhere near him. Or someone attacking Harry first, and Harry having to struggle literally for his life, buttons tearing off his shirt and his hair falling out of its neatly-combed swoop to collapse in untidy clumps over his sweating forehead before he manages to overpower the other guy and slowly, slowly turns his own knife on him, plunging the blade between his ribs and into his hot thudding heart.

"Oh no," Eggsy whispers, stunned and horrified into helpless, silent laughter. Nice to learn new things about yourself and apparently he's some kind of fucking psychopath now because he can't remember his dick ever, _ever _being this hard or this wet without the help of someone's mouth. He fumbles his pyjamas down around his thighs so as not to mess them up any more than he already has and spits into his cupped palm, letting that help the tight glide of his hand as he strokes himself with a quick, shallow rhythm to get it fucking well over with.__

Accidentally wondering whether these pyjama trousers belong to Harry or Merlin is what does him in eventually. The rushing hot surge of goosebumps takes him by surprise somehow, a shocking little flood of tingles through all his extremities before the helpless pulsing starts, his dick hard as hell twitching in his fingers and then the sublime release of tension and breath, followed immediately by the panic of trying not to get his jizz all over the sheets. It collects on his belly instead, dripping stickily into his navel and beading dew-like on the seam of dark hair leading down to where his hand is still fisted around the base of his cock, thumb pushing and stroking slowly, encouraging out the last few drops and the last few tremors.

"Fuck," he mutters again, then swallows hard and glares at his messed up hand like it did the whole thing on its own without any input or permission from the rest of him.

 _Merlin_ , he decides when he's rinsing his hands and trying to sluice his stomach clean in the little washbasin in the corner. He doesn't actually know. Can't even guess, really. But after what he's just been thinking about Harry for the last twenty disturbingly filthy minutes, imagining Merlin's nine mile long legs in nice wholesome blue striped cotton pjs is like the cherry on a gigantic decadent sundae. Imagining Merlin in anything at all—or, yes, in nothing. The images fling themselves at him and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it but luxuriate: Merlin in the crisp, flawless pilot uniform he came home in one day without bothering to offer an explanation, beckoning Eggsy into the cockpit of a plane to do something that's got to be against any number of aviation rules. Merlin in his favourite smart trousers and soft cashmere jumper just flinging Eggsy effortlessly over his shoulder so the leather patch sticks to his sweating belly under the flipped up hem of his t-shirt, carrying him off to use however the fuck he wants.

"Why are you like this?" Eggsy asks himself in the little mirror, but his reflection looks just as fucking baffled and stunned as he feels.

* * *

There's the strange uncomfortable sense that things are going to be different now that Eggsy knows the truth about their real jobs, or at least some of the truth, but nothing much changes at all. Harry can't help waiting for the other shoe to drop for the first few weeks, more or less resigned to the idea that Eggsy, even with all his many multiple good qualities, will accidentally let something slip to someone who has no business knowing such a secret. He feels bad about it by the second month without incident and has a stern word with himself: Eggsy is as fiercely loyal as they come, with the added bonus of being enough of a cheeky bastard to occasionally say, "Alright, Moneypenny?" to Merlin when he arrives at the house in the morning to collect Mr Pickle.

"Might start docking his wages every time he says that," Merlin announces, glaring at Eggsy's back from the front door as he wanders off down the mews with Mr Pickle pattering along beside him, and Harry slips his arm around Merlin's waist and tells him, "No you won't."

It's good not to have to pretend any longer, not least for the way that Eggsy looks at them both now: it's an odd sort of shiny-eyed pride, like he can't suppress his absolute delight at knowing real-life versions of the film characters he gets such a kick out of watching onscreen. He invites himself over for dinner one night, huge paper bag full of fish and chips in his arms and a couple of DVDs tucked in the pocket of his hoodie, and demands to know exactly which bits of Mission: Impossible are bullshit and which get it right. Hearing about just how high the buildings in Dubai really feel when you're dangling from their windows makes him spill a long drip of curry sauce down his front, mouth hanging open and wooden fork full of chips hovering forgotten in front of his face.

"Fucking unbelievable," he keeps saying. Then his perfect pointed eyebrows go up and his eyes turn teasing and sly. "How do you know _I_ ain't some megaspy too and I wriggled in with your pup and got your trust and now you're telling me all your secrets?"

Harry hides his amusement, seeing Merlin roll his eyes on Eggsy's other side. "Do you really think we'd employ anyone we didn't thoroughly research first? We know your infant school best friend's favourite Power Ranger and the colour of the flowers tattooed on your first girlfriend's left shoulder."

Eggsy's grin widens. "Nice try. She didn't have a tattoo."

"She got one a year or so later," Harry says, and Eggsy's smile fades into semi-suspicious contemplation. Good. Keep him on his toes a bit. That he has no idea whether the girlfriend has a tattoo or not is neither here nor there.

Harry's birthday rolls around, as birthdays tend to do. He's had enough of them by now that he doesn't particularly care whether he's at home or away on a mission for the day itself, preferring to go out for fancy dinners with Merlin whenever they feel like it at any point during the year rather than because it's being prescribed by the calendar. But there's something different about it this time, and he has absolutely no shame in that difference being a very tiny, very spoiled puppy. The people who know him well enough to buy him presents naturally know him well enough to make those presents _excellent_ , which is why this year everything is a miniature bomber jacket or a tiny Arsenal neckerchief or an obnoxious little Hawaiian shirt.

"There's something very, very wrong with you," Merlin informs Harry when he gets to the shop from HQ and gleefully shows him his box full of gifts, softening it very slightly by presenting him with a squeaky toy in the shape of a large pickled onion with a red ribbon tied around the middle. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you, Merlin," Harry says solemnly, taking the toy with all the gentle care of a man accepting a Faberge egg. "I shall treasure it always."

He can't keep his face straight any more and a smile slips through, mirrored by the amused gleam in Merlin's eye. "Bring the box with you. Eggsy just phoned to see if we'll meet him in the park for a picnic, I'm sure he'll want a puppy fashion show as much as you do."

It doesn't need mentioning that he can't remember the last time they had a picnic in the park. Merlin's just as aware of the fact as he is, and putting it into words feels as though it might be strangely uncomfortable, like a reminder of how staid their lives have become now outside the thrill of work. He merely lets his hand rest on Merlin's knee in the back of the cab all the way to Hyde Park, and Merlin shifts just enough to let the length of his thigh press warmly against Harry's, sharing the same quiet conversation they do every birthday: _I'm glad we're still here. — Me too._

Mr Pickle somehow notices them from such a ridiculous distance that he's just a dot against the bright green grass when he starts rocketing towards them, tiny legs flapping so hard they blur like a hummingbird's wings. Harry crouches down to swing him up in the air as soon as he's close enough, and Mr Pickle barks joyfully for so long that Harry starts to get mildly concerned that he might hyperventilate and die. "Shush," he tells him, laughing helplessly when the puppy squirms in his arms and starts chewing on his tie. "No, darling, don't do that. Look"—he pauses, holding the dog away from his clothing in one hand and rummaging through the box Merlin's patiently holding with the other—"would you like a pickled onion? Yes, you would, wouldn't you? If I throw this, will you fetch it? Are you ready?"

Mr Pickle streaks off across the grass again in pursuit of the thrown toy and Harry and Merlin hurry after him, heading for the waving figure they can see sitting on a tartan blanket in the distance.

"Alright?" Eggsy says when they reach him, shading his eyes from the sunlight to grin up at them. Mr Pickle is dancing about with the stringy end of the onion toy clutched firmly between his little teeth waiting for someone to throw it again, although he doesn't seem to think he should have to let go of it first. Eggsy manages to prise it away from him eventually and throws it for him to fetch again, then goes back to digging plastic plates and beakers out of his backpack. "Happy birthday, Harry. Thirty-eight's gonna be a good year for you, I can feel it."

"Are you aware you're entirely too charming for your own good?" Harry asks him, finding a spot on the blanket to sit down, Merlin taking the place beside him. "This looks lovely, thank you very much for going to the trouble."

"Nothing swish, just ham sandwiches," Eggsy admits, tipping said sandwiches out from a tupperware onto their plates. "And it's your ham out your fridge, and your bread, so technically you're paying for your own party." He fussily transfers six fondant fancies from their box onto another plate, and finds a candle in the side pocket of his bag to ram into the middle of one, lighting it with his hand cupped around it against the breeze. "There. Cake and everything. Quick, make a wish and blow before it goes out."

Harry blows out the flame but doesn't bother making a wish because what's the point? There's no need for wishes on an evening as perfectly lovely as this.

There's some idle chatter about their days, and plenty of commotion involving Mr Pickle's toy-throwing demands, but it's nice for once just to sit quietly and eat and watch the fat fluffy clouds amble across the bright blue sky above. Harry finds Merlin's knee again, not really noticing he's draped his hand there until he sees Eggsy's eyes flicker to it and away again like he doesn't want to make a fuss or intrude. He looks pleased to see it, though, and Harry remembers again something Merlin told him they'd spoken about on that night he came home from his mission drenched in somebody else's blood: _He likes to be around us because stability and love are things he's never seen an awful lot of_. It made him desperately sad at the time. It still does, impossible to shake off, but the more he's thought about it the more it's begun to settle into something oddly pleasant, in an admittedly selfish sort of way. There are multiple millions of feelings that Eggsy evokes in them both and they can't act upon, but this is something they can make more of an effort to provide for him if it's something he's missing—and not only does it not cost them anything, it gives back so much. It's absurd how much the simple touch of a hand brushing through his hair or a good morning kiss can improve a stressed or tired or inexplicably irritated mood. It seems such a ridiculous thing to have forgotten or ever taken for granted.

"So, listen," Eggsy says after a while. He's lying on his back on the blanket, Mr Pickle sitting on his chest somehow managing to grin like a clown even with the onion in his mouth. "I ain't bought you a birthday present cos your house don't need no more tat in it."

"Thank you," Merlin says before Harry can object.

"But you see all this stuff?" He waves his hand out sideways at the collection of objects scattered near the blanket, which until now Harry hadn't bothered to pay much attention to, assuming they were merely toys abandoned after an afternoon of playing that just hadn't been picked up and put away yet. There's a cardboard tunnel held together on the seam with parcel tape, some upright sticks hammered like long tent pegs into the ground, a red hula hoop lying in the grass, even—surely not—a makeshift seesaw formed of a paint tin on its side and a narrow fence panel.

"You didn't," Harry says in disbelief, and Eggsy beams at him and says, "We fucking did. Mr Pickle, let's show daddy what we been up to all month, yeah?"

The puppy drops his toy onion immediately at some hand gesture of Eggsy's and races like a furry little pinball straight into the tunnel and out the other side. Unable to help himself, absolutely effervescing with glee, Harry surges up to his feet dragging Merlin with him by the hand for a better view. Mr Pickle runs so fast trying to loop around a tree stump at the other side of the tunnel that he tumbles over himself, but somehow he doesn't lose a bit of speed and throws himself into the slalom of upright sticks, whipping side to side between them and never touching a single one.

"Here!" Eggsy calls, holding the hula hoop up in the air, and Mr Pickle goes sailing through it limbs all outstretched like a sugar glider. Harry's laugh wobbles out of him, wet and throaty, just a hair away from being a sob.

"I don't believe this," Merlin murmurs, awestruck beside him. "He won't even sit half the time when I tell him."

"Jump," Eggsy says, yanking one of the sticks out to hold parallel to the ground, then says it again when Mr Pickle clears the hurdle effortlessly, holding it a few inches higher. "Good boy! And one more really high one, you can do it—yeah! Over here now." He runs with the puppy to the seesaw, making more mystifying hand gestures that work like magic to slow him down until he's balancing somehow, his tiny weight placed precariously right above the paint tin and the wood not touching the ground either side. "Yeah, such a good boy! Through the tunnel again, go on"—and this time Mr Pickle runs into it from the far side so that when he emerges like a bullet from the front he can take another flying leap at Eggsy's crouched form, landing on his back and scrambling up to sit neatly on his shoulder like Long John Silver's parrot.

Eggsy's laughing helplessly, putting his hand up to hold the puppy steady as he makes a theatrical bow, then he lifts him down so he can go racing over to Harry and into his arms to submit to all the ferocious kisses and praise he's earned.

"You _are _a good boy," Harry tells him fervently, tickly his furry little tummy while Mr Pickle wriggles in delight and barks his agreement— _I AM, I'm the best boy, tell me again_. "And _you___ he says, staring at Eggsy with what he's sure is the most gormless expression of incredulous delight that he's ever worn. "I should have learned by now not to be surprised by anything you accomplish. How on earth did you manage all of that?"

"Youtube, mostly," Eggsy says, collapsing breathless on the blanket and stuffing the last fondant fancy in his mouth whole. He looks pleased with himself, as he absolutely should. "You can learn basically anything off there. Gonna try and teach him how to dance next, ain't that right, Mr Pickle? Gonna learn the merengue, yeah? Bit of samba if we're feeling extra spicy?"

"You two just encourage each other and frankly it should be illegal," Merlin says, sounding reluctantly resigned to exactly what his life has become, but he shuts up when Harry thrusts the puppy at him to hold and gives Eggsy such a tight, lingering hug of thanks that it knocks the breath out of them both.

* * *

_Three months later_

Eggsy pauses, as always, in Berkeley Square. Mr Pickle has boundless energy, or at least he likes to think he does, but it's a long trek from Hyde Park to Savile Row when you've got such little legs and every time Eggsy glances down at him on the end of the lead Mr Pickle beams back up at him, tongue lolling out of his mouth the way it always does when he needs a drink.

He knows where they're going, of course. He's smart, he knows the routine and recognises his favourite old three-pronged tree beside the path as they're approaching it through the gate, giving it a joyful little bark in greeting and dancing round himself in circles unable to repress his glee.

"Alright," Eggsy says, laughing and trying to untangle the twisted lead, "stop arsing about and pick us a nice spot, yeah? Shall we get some sunbathing in before we go and meet daddy?"

He goes where he's pulled, letting Mr Pickle sniff at trees and plant pots and benches and exciting patches of gravel until he finds a place that meets his standards and sits down on the grass, staring excitedly up at Eggsy as if he's waiting for applause. Eggsy digs through the sandwich bag in his jacket pocket to break off a bit of treat for him—and really it shouldn't still be this gratifying to see that adoring look in the puppy's eyes, not when he's blessed with it seventeen thousand times a day for anything from a chin scratch to the simple shared delight of seeing a fat pigeon off in the distance just asking to be chased, but it never gets old. Every single time melts him as much as the first.

"You gonna be good?" Eggsy croons to Mr Pickle, getting down on his knees in the grass and dropping his backpack in front of them to find the bowl and water bottle and pour him a drink. "If I take you off your lead for a bit you ain't gonna go pelting off wrapping yourself round people's bike tyres, right?"

Mr Pickle stands up and sits down twice with an air of impatience like he's saying _look, I'm good, look at me being good_.

"Alright, then." Eggsy unclips the lead from Mr Pickle's collar and watches him stick his entire face in the water to slurp it up. He's got droplets clinging to his grey whiskers when he finally emerges and sneezes explosively, looking surprised, before going back in for another drink, this time stepping right into the bowl with his front paws. He's doing what Harry calls _tap dancing_ , stepping excitedly in place the way he always does when he's having the best day of his tiny life and doesn't know of any other way to express it. "Yeah, it's warm out today, ain't it? You wanna little paddle? Bowl's big enough, you're only the size of a fucking hamster. I'll pour you more in—"

"Hello, Muggsy," says a grim voice from behind him, and Eggsy's entire nervous system seizes up in shock.

His first instinct is to grab Mr Pickle, leave everything else, and just _run_ , but that fraction of a second of frozen horror is enough time for Dean to get a vicious kick in and Eggsy topples over sideways, his ribs singing sharply with the miserable familiar sensation of steel toe caps on bone and skin. Of course Mr Pickle, having no concept of hamsters but a huge regard for the alsatians and dobermans and rottweilers he's become pally with in the park, turns on Dean with a squeaky growl, his lips curling back from his little needle teeth in a way that might be menacing if only Dean were the size of a Barbie doll and not a stocky vicious grown man with a towering grudge and no morals.

" _No_ ," Eggsy starts, not quite sure which one of them he's shouting at, but he staggers to his feet too late to stop Dean from reaching down and hauling the puppy into the air by his collar.

Mr Pickle's yelp and the panicked scrabbling of his paws is sickening. Eggsy feels the hot surge of tears in his eyes, rage and horror but also the terrible deadness of _here we go again_ that he's not felt in almost two years and thought he'd never have to feel any more for the rest of his life. The placating, hands in the air, try to make yourself look smaller and non-threatening stance comes back so easily that he doesn't realise he's doing it until it's already done, returning to him as naturally as remembering how to swim or ride a bike. Back in the day, the urge to argue and fight back when it was just the two of them was never easy to resist, but whenever he was trying to defend his mum or his sister he knew better, and it's the same now. "Put him down," Eggsy says, trying to keep his voice from wobbling. "You wanna talk you can talk to me, just leave him alone."

"Why the fuck would I want to _talk_?" Dean asks, ugly red face criss-crossed with new and old scars and bruises and twisted in fury. Prison's been tough on him, apparently— _good_ , Eggsy thinks viciously, only it's not really, not if it's fucked him up so much that he's going to literally throttle a puppy just to get some measure of revenge on the person who sent him there. Or stab him, he realises with another sick cold rush of horror when he sees the knife in Dean's other hand.

Eggsy hopes to god someone else in the park has called the police, but you can never really tell who's going to step up and who's going to hurry away with averted eyes assuming someone else will deal with it, and he doesn't want to yell for help and spur him into something desperate. "I'll give you whatever you want, just put him down. Even you ain't enough of a fuckup to hurt a puppy."

Whatever he was hoping for with that was hardly ideal—Mr Pickle to run away in alarm then several petrifying minutes of either trying to avoid that blade long enough for help to arrive or a painful and messy death—but what actually happens is enough to make him shatter through the fear, which probably isn't actually any better. Dean grins, vicious and crazed, and shakes Mr Pickle by the collar as if he's saying _oh yes I fucking am_ , and Eggsy snaps like an overstretched elastic band.

"Fuck you," he snarls, and hurls the metal water bowl right at Dean's head. He's become good at throwing balls and frisbees and squeaky toys after countless hours of playing fetch with Mr Pickle and his aim is honed to sniper-level, sending the sharp ridge at the rim of the bowl spinning fast enough to slice into Dean's nose and cheek. Dean roars in surprise and pain, reeling back and dropping Mr Pickle onto the grass where he tumbles an ungainly forward roll and races to hide behind Eggsy's ankles, heaving and trembling and—brave little alsatian wannabe that he is—still growling even through his fright.

"I should have killed you when you was eleven!" Dean yells, advancing with blood dripping down his face and the knife held tight in his fist. "You fucking know what happens to snitches!"

Eggsy's got half a second to decide where the safest place for Mr Pickle is, and quickly zips him inside the backpack and shoves it under the nearest bench. Got to be better than the little bastard trying to help and just getting himself trodden on, and he'll be able to breathe okay through the mesh panels. The delay is enough for Dean's first swipe of the knife to catch him in the upper arm and Eggsy rolls back and springs to his feet, trying to ignore the shock of pain, brain whirring through his sad little stack of options for the best way to handle this bullshit now. Run, usually. The number of times he ran for what he was absolutely sure was his life reached some uncountable figure long before he ever had to learn to shave. He learned to be fast, then learned to be strong, but strong in a way that involved hauling himself up balconies and skidding down drainpipes finding routes that his pursuers couldn't manage. He was never the strongest fighter because he rarely lingered in the sort of situation that might lead to a brawl, at least not on purpose. He gave his best when he was ambushed, he's broken more than his fair share of noses and fingers before, but if escape was in any way possible that's always what he went for because who was going to look after his mum and baby sister if he ended up dead in a skip or hooked up helplessly to hospital machines for weeks on end?

But he can't run this time—Dean's already on him, knocking him down on the ground again with the steel blade glinting brutally in the sunlight just inches from his torso.

"Call the police!" Eggsy yells now the bastard can't retaliate by breaking Mr Pickle's neck. He's got no idea if there's anybody still around, he doesn't dare look away from that knife for a single second. It slashes down, opening a zinging line of hot pain across his stomach, then another in the muscle of his thigh. He's fighting back and wriggling about enough for none of the blows to land as solidly as Dean obviously intends, but he can't hold out forever and what then?

_What would Harry do?_

The question hits him suddenly as he's arching his neck away from another lunge of the knife. He's never seen Harry fight, but he's seen the aftermath of enough—the scuffed knuckles and the silvery pink of decades-old scars on the rare, ridiculous, wonderful occasions he's been blessed with the sight of Harry in a t-shirt or coming out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a skimpy towel around his hips and a slightly embarrassed expression at being caught without his fancy threads. And he's asked for stories, fascinated and thrilled by every scrap the two of them agree to throw him from their weird secret life.

_I wouldn't suggest punching, not unless you really know what you're doing. Broken fingers are dreadful. An elbow, though. I'm quite fond of delivering a good elbow to the face. I'm not sure it's even possible to hit hard enough to hurt yourself, but the damage it can do to your opponent is incredible. You might as well be using a hammer._

Eggsy twists away from the knife again, draws his arm forward, and rockets it back with every bit of strength he can manage. Harry was right, it doesn't hurt him nearly as much as punching with his fist would, but the sound is disgusting: a meaty crunch when he obliterates Dean's nose, then the gurgling bellow of pain and fury as he rears back on his knees, hand flying to paw reflexively at the gushing blood now streaming down over his mouth and chin.

_And don't listen to anyone who tells you a real man doesn't aim for the low-hanging fruit, shall we say. If you're in a fight you need to take every advantage you can find, sportsmanship be damned. Use your knee, or rather the place on your thigh just above your knee. And don't aim for the testicles when you bring your leg up—your target is the stomach. Fix it in your mind and go for it. That way you won't subconsciously pull back or slow down before the maximum damage is done._

"Fuck you," Eggsy says again, his voice an icy cold murderous growl he's never heard himself make before, and slaps his hands on Dean's shoulders to steady himself as he twists fluidly up into position with the muscle memory of long-ago gymnastics and pistons his knee full-force into Dean's crotch, twice. This time Dean barely even makes a sound, just a guttural wheezing exhale, then Harry's voice in Eggsy's head calmly reminds him _There's a lot to be said for a well-placed Glasgow kiss as well, I think_ , and Eggsy slams his skull right into the middle of Dean's destroyed face.

"Are you dead, you fucking piece of shit?" he yells, shoving Dean over onto the path where he lies barely moving, just twitching and bleeding and making those sickening wet gurgling groans. "Fucking hope not, hope you can still hear me. Hope you're gonna be alive forty more years shitting in a carrier bag and never enough drugs for how much it hurts you fucking everywhere every time you try and just breathe. _Fuck you_."

He's about to go for another kick to the nuts—and it's not even remembering what Harry said once about never leaving a fight unfinished, it's just because he fucking wants to—when he feels a hand on his arm. The surprise of it makes him whirl around and almost fling a fist at the newcomer instead, but she blocks his arm easily with her own and then takes a step back out of his space with her hands raised peaceably, the same way Eggsy had been standing in front of Dean just before it all kicked off.

"Eggsy," she says.

Eggsy stares at her for a moment while the homicidal fog in his head starts very slowly to settle. "Yeah. Who are you?"

"Lancelot. I work with Merlin and Galahad." Probably should have guessed from the immaculate three-piece suit and thick framed glasses. She glances down at Dean then, and the corner of her mouth lifts in something like a smile. "Nice work there. From what I heard, he had it coming."

"Yeah, fucking arsehole tried to— _shit_!"

He races the few steps to the bench and flings himself down to drag the backpack out, unzipping it and lifting Mr Pickle onto his lap to check his scared face and all his trembling little limbs. "I'm so sorry, are you alright? Lemme see, did he hurt you? Did _I_ hurt you?"

"You don't look in top shape yourself," Lancelot comments behind him. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"No, I—" He stops, cradling Mr Pickle in one arm and carefully poking the sorest parts of his stomach and leg and bicep to make sure there's no guts or muscle tatters hanging out and blowing in the breeze without him realising. "Gotta be honest, I reckon he's done worse to me before and I never bothered then, soooo..."

Lancelot looks grim, a glint of fury in her eyes as she glances over disgustedly at Dean. "Alright, then Merlin's asked me to put you in my taxi and send you to his house. He's on his way home from Hertfordshire now."

"But... how did he know?"

She comes over and gives Mr Pickle a fond little scratch on the top of his head, and the little tart wriggles onto his back in Eggsy's arms to show her his belly, grinning with his tongue out until she laughs and tickles him there instead. "I find it best not to ask, I just always assume he's hovering somewhere in the background. Saved my life on several occasions, so I'm thankful for it." Her face sours again when Eggsy looks at Dean, and Mr Pickle gives another tiny rumbling growl. "Saved _his_ as well, I think, though I'm not sure about the future quality of it. I'll deal with him. You go home."

* * *

He doesn't actually make it back to Merlin and Harry's place for another hour and a half, too concerned about Mr Pickle being swung around by the collar not to get him checked out first. The puppy's asleep by the time Eggsy makes it back to the mews, flat out and snoring in the front pocket of his hoodie like nothing happened.

The door opens when he's halfway down the row and Merlin appears there, silhouetted against the hall light so Eggsy can't see how anxious he looks until he's right up close.

"Hey," Eggsy says, then stops, choked up by the alarming onset of tears again that overtake him as suddenly and unstoppably as a sneeze. He twists his face up and blinks hard trying to keep those fuckers in his eyes—lucky Merlin's so tall, really, because Eggsy tilting his head back to discourage his tears from falling out could plausibly be just to look him in the face. "Merlin, I'm so sorry."

His voice is wobbling like fuck, it's so embarrassing—then Merlin reaches for him, a warm clasp on the shoulder to draw him inside the house, and once the door is closed and locked behind him Merlin goes full fucking throttle and actually _hugs him_. Which, yeah, is really _really_ nice but just undoes all the effort Eggsy put into not howling like a toddler on the doorstep. He clutches back, sniffling helplessly against the soft cashmere of Merlin's jumper and trying not to squish Mr Pickle between them.

"You absolutely don't have to apologise for anything," Merlin murmurs. "I was just worried, I thought you were coming straight home."

"Yeah, I was, but he was breathing a bit funny cos Dean fucking swung him about by the neck so I took him round the vet's first. He's alright, just scared." He fumbles Mr Pickle out of his pocket with one hand, not wanting to let go of Merlin yet with the other arm, and brings him up between them to be inspected. "Couldn't ring you, my phone got smashed."

Mr Pickle licks Merlin delicately on the nose to greet him, and for once Merlin doesn't just tolerate it but actually smiles and gives him a relieved kiss on the top of his fluffy head. "Put him down, Eggsy. Let me look at you."

Merlin waits for Mr Pickle to race off and put himself to bed, chewing happily on the remains of a treat he finds lurking in the folds of his blanket, then gently tilts Eggsy's chin up with his fingertips to better catch the overhead lights. His eyes are soft and concerned, travelling everywhere from the headbutt bruise on Eggsy's forehead to the scrapes on his cheek and presumably the remnants of Dean's blood that he'd tried to scrub away with his sleeve and the last dregs of water in his bottle on the way to the vet.

"The state of you," Merlin says. It would sound chiding if his voice weren't so soft and sorrowful. "Are you hurt? Lancelot said you refused the hospital but she didn't quite believe you shouldn't be there."

He's not hurt, at least not in any way that can't be helped tenfold by another minute of pressing his nose against Merlin's jumper and inhaling the warm spice of his cologne. He wouldn't dare, usually, but everything tonight feels so crooked and fucked up that he can't dredge up the energy to behave himself, so he does exactly what he wants to and feels Merlin's arms tighten around his back again like permission.

"Alright," Merlin murmurs, tickling the edge of Eggsy's ear with his breath. "Whatever you need."

They stand there a good three or four minutes before embarrassment and propriety start to creep back in and Eggsy pulls away awkwardly, scrubbing his streaming nose on his sleeve. "Fuck, sorry. I probably got snot on your three hundred quid jumper."

"Twelve hundred, actually," Merlin corrects him, and Eggsy stares at him in horror for a moment before he smiles and shrugs. "It'll clean. Better than puppy widdle. Speaking of clean, you'll want those scrapes looked at."

"I'm getting a drink first," Eggsy tells him, and Merlin raises his eyebrows like _cheeky little shit, are you?_ before giving up and telling him, "Help yourself. Pour me one as well and I'll find the first aid kit."

* * *

The kit is still in the upstairs bathroom, tucked away after yet another round of mopping up Harry's mission scrapes last week while the idle bastard lounged in bed eating grapes like a Roman and occasionally making theatrically brave stifled groans of pain trying to get more than his fair share of sympathy. Merlin grabs it out from the cabinet under the sink, looking away hastily when he accidentally catches a glimpse of his reflection.

"You look exactly how I feel," Harry says softly over the glasses connection.

"Like crying?" Merlin asks. He sits on the edge of the bed and drops the kit beside him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers pressing into his tired eyes behind his glasses hard enough to leave dancing spots when he removes them.

"I hope this is how you react every time _I'm_ in a fight." He says it lightly, joking-but-not. He doesn't mean it about the jealousy, Merlin knows that, but still he's wandering very close to the edges of something else they've never quite managed to find the right moment to confront. "We have to let him go. It's revolting to obsess over him like this, both of us."

"I know," Merlin says. He's rubbing his thumb over his cufflink, a weird nervous habit that only ever surfaces at moments of great stress of when he's beyond any reasonable human level of tiredness. Harry bought them for him in 1989, saying with an uncharacteristic sort of gravity when Merlin opened the box _in a kinder world these would be a wedding ring, if that's going to affect your accepting them_. "But I don't want to."

"Because he defended that little dog with his life and there's no person on earth we could ever trust to care for him better than that?"

"No. I just don't want to." He wishes Harry could read his thoughts. Everything's laid out there so clearly, but siphoning them off into words and sentences loses too much in the translation. "Do you mind?"

"That you're in love with him?" He can hear the laughter in Harry's voice, not mocking or bitter but something warm and fond. "How on earth could I mind? I am, too. Or at least I think I could be if I were home more often. I know it's not quite the same when you spend so much more time with him than I do."

"Different chapters of the same book."

"Precisely." There's the faint squeak of bedsprings and a musical clink that might be the tap of a bottle against the rim of a crystal glass. Merlin opens his eyes, seeing Harry's view of his hotel room in Moscow: the long stretch of his legs under lavishly embroidered covers and the radiant electric lights of the city far below filtering in through the dark square of the curtained window opposite. "I wish I were there. We should probably talk about all of this like sensible responsible adults."

"Talk tomorrow when you're home. I promise."

"Alright," Harry agrees. His view tilts upwards, the motion of taking a sip of his nightcap. "I love you tremendously. I know I don't say so as often as I used to."

"Well, neither do I. It's not needed, is it?"

"I suppose not," Harry says, pensive and quiet. "I've never, ever felt as though something were missing, or declining."

"No. That's not what it is, all of"—Merlin waves a hand helplessly, like the right words might be hovering waiting to be plucked out of the air like berries from a bramble hedge—"you know, _this_. It's nothing like that at all."

"I know, darling."

"Stay on the line until you fall asleep, will you? I like having you close."

"Of course."

Eggsy's in the kitchen when Merlin goes back downstairs, sitting on his favourite spot on the counter that Harry and Merlin have both told him a million times to get down from. He's leaning over to pour himself a pint glass of water from the tap, swallowing half of it in a series of long greedy gulps that leave a gleam of wetness on his upper lip before he swipes it away with his palm.

"Got you a whiskey," he says, nudging the tumbler beside him forward. "Gonna stick with the water. The vet gave me some painkillers, I mean not like horse tranks or whatever, just Anadins from her handbag cos she seen I weren't a hundred percent. Probably took a couple more than I should, best not push it."

"Well, let me know when it's time to take more, we've got stronger than that if you need." Merlin hesitates, then adds, "Something to make you sleep as well, if you'd like. Although I'd have to blowdart you because it's technically a weapon, and that doesn't seem very dignified."

Eggsy stares at him for a moment, mouth twitching like he's trying not to laugh. "Think I'll pass on that one, but thanks for the offer, yeah?" He takes another drink of water and sets the half-empty glass down in the sink, watching Merlin open the first aid kit and rummage through the contents looking for what he needs. "Merlin, how did you know we was in trouble? Your mate Lancelot said you sent her."

There's no way out of this one, so probably best get straight to the truth. "Pickle's collar has a camera and various other bits and pieces on it. Harry made me add it when we first hired you, just to be sure."

Eggsy's eyebrows raise in disbelief, then, to Merlin's immense relief, he creases laughing. "Fucking spies, I should've known. And that's how come you didn't know we was at the vet's after, I took the collar off him and chucked it in my bag in case it was hurting his neck. Sorry all the vids are probably like eight solid hours of me totally smooching him."

"Well, we haven't actually watched any in months," Merlin says, truthfully—Harry got to the point of trusting Eggsy almost immediately, and Eggsy's been spamming Harry's phone with photos a dozen times a day and spending so much time with them in person that it just hasn't been necessary. "Honestly I forgot it was even there. But there's a health tracker as well to monitor his heartbeat and so on, similar to the ones the agents use. It started beeping and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from, then I realised and brought up the video to see why he was so excited."

"And saw him being swung round like the fucking Trunchbull with a kid she don't like," Eggsy finishes. His voice is flat, but the flare of rage in his eyes gives him away before it fades back down to something more like exhausted misery. "I'm so sorry. I should've been looking out for him better."

"Eggsy, no," Merlin tells him, gently but firmly. "How on earth were you supposed to predict an attack like that? You said that man was supposed to be locked up for decades."

"Well, yeah, he was. Guess he bust out for a bit of revenge." He shuts up for a minute, letting Merlin dab at his face with wet wipes trying to figure out which blood spatters are his own injuries and which are the backsplash from injuries he inflicted on Dean. "Do you know what happened to him? Is he dead? Am I gonna get in trouble?"

"You're not in trouble." Eggsy relaxes at that, an invisible weight seeming to collapse off his slumped shoulders. "And he's not dead, although I can absolutely arrange that if you'd like me to."

Merlin can feel Eggsy's eyes on him as he's cleaning a nasty scrape on his cheekbone. "Weird how fucking scary you are," Eggsy says quietly, though the tone of his voice is more like wonder. "I mean, at the same time as being literally the nicest person I ever known in my whole life. Just offering to kill someone for me like that. Like it's nothing."

"You very nearly killed him yourself," Merlin reminds him.

"Yeah, but that was like in the heat of the moment or whatever. What do you call it. Crime of passion, I suppose. He jumped me and I defended myself and got angry. You're talking full on premeditated cold murder."

"Let me see your arm, please." Eggsy struggles out of his torn hoodie, revealing the maroon smudge of dried blood smeared all over his bicep. It's not a bad wound, but the fact that it's there at all is bad enough and Merlin finds himself clenching his jaw as he's swiping the blood away and cleaning the cut. "I'm sorry. Forget I said it."

"No, I don't want to forget." He's much less of a baby than Harry is when he's getting injuries seen to, flinching involuntarily at the unfamiliar sensations but not making a deliberate fuss for extra sympathy. Instead he's simply sitting there on the counter watching Merlin's face closely, thinking god knows what and clearly choosing his next words very carefully. "Nice to know you got my back. I mean it. But I don't want him to die, I want him to fucking suffer. Not just for hurting a defenceless puppy, I mean for everything he ever done to me and my mum and all the fucked up shit he pulled round our community. Like things ain't hard enough there already. Which," he adds slowly, "I suppose ain't no better than killing him. I mean morally or whatever. I dunno what to think."

"Well, I can't do your thinking for you," Merlin tells him, deftly smoothing a little line of butterfly stitches over the cleaned slash. "But however you want to proceed, Harry and I will make sure it happens. You have our word on that."

"Thanks?" He starts laughing quietly, not sounding amused but just overwhelmed and confused by the weird direction his life has decided to go over the last several months. "Fucking hell, how do you deal with this shit day in day out? _Worse_ than this. I wanna fucking cry myself to sleep right now but you just wave Harry off on his little business trips all the time like it's nothing."

"We've had a long time to get used to it. And he's very, very well trained. It's difficult to explain." He follows the next splashes of blood to a slice in the front of Eggsy's ruined white t-shirt. "Lift this for me."

In a ridiculously nimble one-handed motion, Eggsy grasps the hem and peels his t-shirt right off over his head, leaving his hair sticking up in all directions. "Try," he says, balling the t-shirt up and throwing it vaguely in the direction of the bin in the corner of the kitchen, then helpfully adds, "to explain," when Merlin hesitates a moment too long at being suddenly eye-level with the graceful lines of his naked collar bones.

He begins to clean the long winding scratch below Eggsy's navel, keeping his hands steady with nothing but rock-solid willpower. "We couldn't do the jobs we do if we worried about every single threat in the world. It would incapacitate us completely. You learn to divert those feelings in more practical ways. Instead of being afraid he'll get shot, I make absolutely certain that his own weapons are top quality and his armour is strong. Instead of worrying that today might be the day he dies in some faraway place, we try to live in such a way that if it does happen, there's nothing we didn't say or do. Grief is probably bearable, but grief compounded with regrets is not how I intend to live if I'm forced to do so without him."

"Have you ever said this out loud to anyone before?" Harry asks over his glasses.

"I thought you were asleep," Merlin says sharply, feeling a twinge of something that might be embarrassment if this were anyone but Harry, but he relents when he hears the warmth of Harry's soft laughter reaching him from so far away. "No, only you."

"What?" Eggsy says warily, then, "Harry, is that you? Do you two fucking read each other's minds now or...?"

Merlin takes his glasses off and turns them around to slip onto Eggsy's face instead.

The delighted grin that spreads across his mouth and dimpled cheeks is instantaneous. "This is some proper Q shit. Hey, Harry."

He lets them talk, gently tapping Eggsy's hip to get him to lift up far enough to get his tracksuit trousers off him and see to the final knife wound. It's not as deep as the one on his arm, but longer and ragged as though the blade slipped and slashed a couple of times over the same place. He cleans it carefully, trying not to wince in sympathy every time Eggsy's breath catches at a new shock of pain, and tapes it shut using almost all the strips left in the box.

"This one could do with some real stitches," he says the next time Eggsy pauses in his conversation.

Eggsy doesn't reply, but he's giving him the most curious look.

"Eggsy?"

He takes Merlin's glasses off his face and places them, folded, on the counter next to him. For a moment he seems to be struggling for words, then all in one long breath manages to fumble out, "Harry says if I want to kiss you I can, which, not sure where he got the impression you'd actually want me to, but anyway, that's what he just said."

"Oh," is all Merlin can accomplish as a reply with his head reeling the way it is now.

"And now he's gone to sleep."

"Well, you know what he's like about always getting the final word."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Got to admit, ain't the most comfortable thing in the word being in my pants with your hands all over me after just telling you that," Eggsy says quietly, eyes downturned to where Merlin's finger is smoothing down the last butterfly stitch on his bare thigh. "Not cos, you know, I don't want you feeling me up, I mean. Just don't wanna sit here fucking burning up while you're just being nice to me, feels like I'm being gross. Like, dishonest or whatever. I shouldn't have said anything, he was probably just making some joke I don't get and now I've gone and made it fucking weird."

"He wouldn't be cruel enough to make a joke like that."

Fucking rude of him to spew it out without warning Merlin first, but if it was a judgement error at least it seems to be a well-meant one. And it's true that he's always been a monumental talent when it comes to reading people's emotions and intentions, which is one of many reasons he's a much better spy out in the field than Merlin ever was. He never would have brought it up unless he had absolutely no doubt that it would be welcome news. And going by the flush in Eggsy's cheeks and the feverish look in his eyes, everything he said just now is only a fragment of what he's feeling, which in itself is a tangled revelation that Merlin can't even begin to unravel.

"Should I just go?" Eggsy asks.

"Only if you want to."

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

He wonders if this would be easier with Harry here in person, all encouraging meaningful glances and impatient shooing motions with his hands. The image makes him smile, and Eggsy's dimples appear again to bracket a grin that's all relief and amazement. His hand finds Merlin's still resting on his thigh, and slides questioningly up the full length of his sleeve to stroke the collar of his jumper.

"You want me to stay?" he asks, and Merlin nods his head. Quieter, marvelling, Eggsy asks, "You want me to kiss you?" in a tone of such absolute stunned disbelief that Merlin can't answer in any way but by kissing him first, rocking up on his tiptoes to reach him while Eggsy's bare thighs press warmly on either side of his body and his arms drape over Merlin's shoulders like he's not quite convinced yet that he's allowed to touch. Eggsy sighs, the sound of it escaping from his nose in a hungry hum, and hesitantly begins to trace his fingertips in burning little trails from Merlin's collar up his neck and jaw to gently hold his face. Braver now, he tips it to a better angle and Merlin feels the first touch of Eggsy's tongue on his lower lip. It sends a roiling shiver through him, one that Eggsy must feel because he smiles against Merlin's mouth and does it again.

"Alright?" he murmurs and Merlin nods and slides his palms up Eggsy's bare thighs and around his back, drawing him closer to the edge of the countertop for the overwhelming pleasure of feeling utterly surrounded by him: legs wrapped around his torso, Eggsy's arms around his neck again, a kiss he needs to reach upwards for in a way he hasn't in decades except the occasions when Harry's stopped halfway up the staircase and turned around for a sample of what they're heading to the bedroom for.

Eggsy laughs at being manhandled, breathless and exhilarated, welcoming it and responding to it for a good five minutes before reminding Merlin, "He said I could kiss you, didn't say nothing about me stripping down to my undies and rubbing my dick off on your nice jumper, which"—he gestures at the straining fabric of his boxers quite without embarrassment—"is basically what's gonna happen if you keep on."

"Well, he didn't say you _couldn't_ ," Merlin points out.

Eggsy's eyes are sparkling with amusement and a feverish sort of desire that Merlin can't quite believe isn't pulled right from one of those furtive midnight dreams he's been having at least once a week lately. "Nice loophole."

He leans back a little way, fingers moving to Merlin's front and tugging gently at the knot in his tie to loosen it while Merlin just stares at him, enraptured, taking in every bit of Eggsy's magnificent face: the blush smudged prettily across his cheekbones, how wet and dark his mouth looks after so much kissing, every one of the million colours and wishes and intentions in his bright lovely eyes.

"You and him are still solid, right? Like, this"—Eggsy makes a _me and you_ gesture between them—"don't mean you're having, you know, relationship problems or whatever?"

"A twin set of midlife crises, maybe," Merlin says, deadpan, and Eggsy's grin conjures up his dimples again. "But no problems, no. The opposite, in fact. We haven't been closer in years."

"Cool." He abandons the tie and reaches down for the hem of Merlin's jumper instead, tugging gently with his eyebrows raised like a question until Merlin, heart thundering, nods and raises his arms so Eggsy can take it off him. "Twelve fucking hundred quid," Eggsy mutters in disbelief, folding the jumper carefully and placing it on the other side of the sink out of the way. "Is he gonna mind this? His nanny sitting here undressing his husband while he's off on some business trip abroad?"

"We could always ask him." Merlin finds the folded glasses and holds them up between them for Eggsy to take. "I'd bet my life he's not asleep, he's probably interfering with himself imagining you without trousers on."

Eggsy takes the glasses from him, and slips them onto Merlin's face. "Alright," he says, fingers looping through Merlin's tie again to pull him closer into another lingering, ravenous kiss. "Then let's really give him something to think about."

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> One more part still to come (without such a massive delay this time!)


End file.
